In his drunkenness, Michael had forgotten Sarah’s name from the short list of victims in the P4 incident. To him, the video clips seemed nothing more than regular video messages from some researcher. There were nearly identical, as well. Sarah always started with, “This is Sarah Coverman.” She always recorded in the same area. Even her hair and clothes were the same each time. Sleepiness consumed him in his despair and he passed out, drooling on his keypad.
In the morning, Michael wiped his face and looked at the screen with bleary eyes. He watched all the videos again, though this time, something in his memory nagged him. It wasn’t until he opened the audio log that he put it all together. The transcript was as follows.
“This is USSN to Sarah Coverman. Do you copy?”
“This is Sarah Coverman. I read you.”
There was a muffled grunt and a bang. A few seconds passed before the USSN soldier responded.
“Dr. Coverman, this is the US3 Hamilton. We are passing overhead. Can you tell us your status?”
“Elated to hear your voice. I’m part of the Pelagic research team. I’m happy to tell you we’ve got a cure for the Waste down here. Why don’t you come and pick me up? We’ve saved humanity.”
There was a brief pause while Michael heard someone tap on a keypad.
“Who’s we? Do you have other survivors down there with you?”
“Survivors? Yeah, Rico Diaz and Jamie Curtiss are with me, too. The rest of the team abandoned the mission.”
There was more tapping.
“Rico? Jamie? Can you put either of them on?”
“What’s wrong with me? I’m offended. They’re in the lab. I’d have to go hunt them down.”
“Apologies, doctor. We’re just trying to verify how many people are still down there. Dr. Coverman, do you remember anything about the accident?”
“Accident?”
“Yes, at the P4 base. The moon was put under quarantine.”
“Uh, I can assure you that there have been no accidents. That may have been a lie Fabrycky made up to justify leaving.”
“And where are you now? The P4 base?”
“Been here working for two years, now. The coordinates are included in this transmission.”
“Got’em. Dr. Coverman, do you remember dying?”
“Dying? What? Who is this? You said you were the Spacy Navy.”
“Yes, Dr. Coverman. My name is Jason Reidberg of the US3 Hamilton. I am a Lunazoe Radio Expert. I’m tasked with—I’m tasked with making contact with you.”
“Piss off.”
The last four minutes of the broadcast was Reidberg repeating his hails to Dr. Coverman, over and over. She did not respond. Or did she ever? The person clearly had no recollection of the thirty years since it had died on the cold face of the moon. Michael’s mind reeled.
It was all coming back now: All his research into P4 and its staff. Sarah Coverman, Rico Diaz, and Jamie Curtiss. The only three known victims of lunazoe.
There were too many implications. Michael could hardly comprehend it all. The only thing he was certain of was that he had the biggest scoop in the history of mankind. Headlines rolled past his eyes like a marquee set to warp drive. “Government Cover-Up: Hidden Broadcasts from the Moon.”
No, no. “Government Cover-Up: Hidden Broadcasts from Lunazoe.”
Oh, that had a nice ring to it. Plus, it personified the lunazoe virus. That would let Michael discuss it as if it were a person doing things with intent. Most people hated reading about things. They loved reading about people, though.
There were other angles, too. “The Dead Speak: Radio Expert Makes Contact With Deceased Doctor.” What would Dr. Coverman’s parents make of this? How would they react to hearing their daughter’s voice again for the first time in three decades? Michael ran a search in the background for any living relatives of Sarah Coverman. From a desk drawer, he grabbed a notepad on which he could jot interview questions.
Michael meditated. The breaking article was the most important. He thought about the moon panic that would arise from this. How could he play into Earth’s primal fear of the lunazoe? When Michael opened his eyes, he began typing.
“Soul-Eater: Lunazoe Traps Victims in Purgatory”
5.
As hinted at earlier, it was the first moon calling that reversed the exodus from Earth. The Michael Everet leaks were bad for everyone but Michael, though he probably did save lives in the end. Every spaceport over Earth was immediately booked for a year. People weren’t outright afraid of the content of the moon visions or moon comm, they just didn’t understand them, and people naturally feared what they didn’t understand.
Zettafleet gained, too, charging exorbitant fees to transfer people off the planet. Bodies were packed in the hulls so tightly that people actually slept in missile tubes. They were quick journeys, fortunately. Zettafleet pilots dropped their cargo off at planets only a single Webgate away. This let them get back and overcharge more scared passengers quickly, as competition was tough. It seemed every independent ship owner was trying to make some side money off the crisis. Even the fleet of retro-style starships was cashing in. Spaceports on these nearby worlds became booked next, but that was somebody else’s less-lucrative problem to solve.
The president made a speech, of course. He was humbled and embarrassed by the leaks. He promised decisive action from the USSN, but nobody knew what that meant. Moon plumes slowed since the maser strikes stopped, but that just meant more inaction from the cruisers and their crew.
The P14 moon whisper returned, thought to have been eradicated by the masering of branch 23C. Moon visions continued, as well, and on the hundredth day since the leaks, Jamie Curtiss appeared in a moon vision of his own.
The moon was bombarded with signals. The same hobbyists that had been listening to the whispers for a decade were now trying to establish their own moon comms. With the jammers still in place, they had no chance of receiving an answer, but the moon sometimes replied, anyway. After the first moon comm with a third party, the federal government outlawed any attempts at communicating with the lunazoe. Pirate signals continued to broadcast, though the legislation cut down on much of the noise.
On the Pelagic orbital base, Nora Dobbs called William Trimble into her office to accept his resignation. William was a petite man. He had a small frame and narrow, nimble fingers. He wore big round glasses on his little round head. The P4 staff had joked that he was a Waste survivor. Nora probably outweighed him.
“You haven’t changed your mind?” Nora asked. William had been stationed on P4 during the incident. Like most of the survivors, it had weighed heavily on him, though he seemed to handle it better than most. The moon comms spooked even these hardened men and women.
“I haven’t,” William said. He had no more to add.
Nora relaxed and collected herself before speaking. The arrangements had already been made. She just needed to spell it out for him. “William, we are going to arrange transport for you. I think you can appreciate how out-of-hand this has gotten and why you need to disappear. With the leaks, we can’t afford to have someone from our own team contact the press. I don’t think you would, since you know that the government would probably hang you, but I want no chances. You understand that, don’t you?”
William couldn’t keep the sneer off his face. He said nothing.
“You’ll spend the rest of your time here isolated. No goodbyes with your colleagues. No cake to commemorate your many decades of service. You will board a friendly ship. You will be given papers—a new identity, like you’re a spy or something. Come on, that’s fun, right?”
William continued to say nothing.
“The ship will take you to Freeport. It’s a low-technology world. Not no-tech, mind you, but they don’t have PPCs. They have tethered phones in their homes they can make calls from. The cities have printing presses and newspapers—very quaint. The big plus for you and I is that there are no network connections through to the rest of the Webg
ate network. Nobody there has any communication with the rest of the United Space.”
William nodded.
“They don’t even have a space elevator or any spaceports. All space travel is one-way. They have a landing pad on which they receive new immigrants, but nobody leaves.”
“Sounds like I’m being exiled,” William finally replied.
“You are being exiled, William.” Nora leaned forward in her chair now. “The whole world would have you exiled for what you’ve done. The whole universe. Be thankful you can at least have a computer on this planet. All of your access has been revoked. Get back to your cabin. I’ll deliver your meals, myself.”
And so began William’s short-lived exile. It started with something like three weeks confinement to his cabin. Nora wasn’t so cruel that she wouldn’t have words with him. He wasn’t in a maximum security prison. This wasn’t punishment. She chatted with him briefly; gave him updates on his transport and other matters around Pelagic. Eventually, she found a few physical books and brought them to him. The books had broken spines and curled corners. They were little paperbacks about spy adventures. William quite liked them. He read them each once over in those three weeks.
“Your new name is Jerry,” Nora said as she handed over a passport. She mused for a pause, seemingly unsure if she should say the next sentence. “Your contributions will be missed.”
William thanked her and entered through the airlock into an unidentified ship. It was no cruiser, but the narrow passages and compact rooms were a welcome change to his lone cabin. He carried a duffle bag over his shoulder full of his things: clothes, his diplomas and certifications—out of their frames and rolled into a tube—some toiletries, and the books Nora had given him. She kept his PPC and electronics.
The few crew were busy, but happy to chat with William over lunch and dinner. They told him of their adventures, appropriately embellished for maximum entertainment. They also begged for insights into his work with the lunazoe. William gave noncommittal and vague answers.
The ship was coming up on a huge spaceport in two days’ time, William was told. It was at an intersection of six main Webgates. They’d be stopping to refuel and browse the wares. William would have to stay on the ship with the captain, they explained, but if he wanted anything—beef jerky, new shoes, survival gear, you name it—all he had to do was ask.
Books, William requested. Thrillers, espionage, intrigue. That was the kind he was craving. William was starting to like the idea of Freeport. He imagined an idyllic cabin at the top of some modest hill. He imagined himself lounging on the front porch with a paperback, none of the worries of the world nagging him from a PPC screen or computer terminal.
As he left the break room, William realized that the captain was the one person he hadn’t met, yet. As it happened, he bumped right into the man at the next corner. William rocked back, rubbing his sore upper arm, and introduced himself to the man in the royal blue jacket.
“Name’s Belew,” the captain said. William saw he wore some kind of sling that let his wrist hang from one of his coat’s silver buttons. The hand was cloaked in a black glove, holding a pen.
Belew led William to the captain’s cabin, a messy area cluttered with empty bottles and decorated with posters of classic Earth films. He ushered William to sit on a bare metal folding chair. Belew remained standing, looking down at the scientist.
“I’ve got some bad news for you, partner,” Belew began. “Do you smoke?”
“On a spaceship?” William exclaimed. “You can’t do that.”
“Well, it’s my ship, so I can do whatever I like. But if you don’t partake, I won’t either. The news is: I’m not taking you to Freeport.”
William brightened, then looked conflicted. He had grown so used to the idea of exile, he was no longer certain he wished to escape it. “Where are you taking me?”
“Nowhere good,” Belew answered. “We’re looping round some class F star that nobody cares about. Gonna launch you right out the airlock. You’ll never be seen again.”
“Oh,” was all William could say. He looked down at Belew’s shiny boots.
“Yeah, you’re taking it pretty well. I dosed you with some alprazolam so you wouldn’t panic or freak out. Now, don’t worry. I’m not a bad guy. I’m not gonna throw you into space to suffer your last moments. I’ll give you a zap beforehand. Totally painless.”
“Why,” William started, but he couldn’t get the question out.
“Because Nora Dobbs contracted me to.”
William shook his head. “No. Why are you telling me?”
“Ah, yes. Well, you see, you are as good as dead. I accepted the payment and I don’t benefit by letting you live. You should do your best to accept your death now. I do stand to benefit, still, as do you. You can’t keep your life, but you might find solace in that your last act offered some defiance against she who wronged you. You see, Nora has contracted me to kill a number of your colleagues. All of them were stationed at P4 during the initial lunazoe incident. All of them decided to leave Pelagic institute. I enjoy making money, Dr. Trimble. I also enjoy opportunities. I don’t know what kind of opportunities will present themselves in my future dealings with Nora Dobbs, but I’d like to have some sort of leverage should one of these pesky opportunities arise. I want you to tell me why Nora wants you dead. I want you to tell me what your research entailed. I want you to tell me as much about your past thirty-odd years as you can remember.”
William sighed and removed his glasses. He began to speak. When he was finished, Belew told him the story about how he got his pen.
Admiral Vogel enjoyed the stress. Orbital traffic above Earth and between Sol’s Webgates had increased a hundredfold since Everet’s damned leaks. This traffic needed USSN protection. He’d have hired the Zettafleet, but they refused the USSN contract. The price put forth was rejected by the president, personally.
Instead, he withdrew peacekeeping forces from a Webgate fifteen hops away. War was ready to break out between Nuevo Aires, an independent planet populated by Argentinian nationals, and Turpan, which was a member of the Greater Chinese Planetary Alliance. On Earth, The People’s Republic of China made a big show against hostilities by allied planets, but these same sentiments were echoed before a half-dozen previous invasions. Delta-V expected the first missiles to cross the Webgate in under a month.
So, too, were military escorts reduced. This posed less of a threat. Every pirate in the galaxy was at Earth. Stolen Waste vaccines paid far less than scared aristocrats. While this freed up the escorts for the time being, it posed the additional challenge of tracking every ship in the system for suspicious launches. Nobody wanted another teapot entering restricted lunar orbit again. Of course, this presumed there were not additional teapots already out there spying, which would be almost impossible to identify.
Finally, Admiral Vogel had to deal with the impossible task of the lunazoe, itself. Nora made promises at every LEC meeting, but there had been no evidence that Pelagic was closer to developing a nanite that could render the lunazoe inert in the same fashion that they had planned to do to the Waste. For over thirty years, they’ve made no progress. It was a wonder the company managed to succeed before the government contracts. Vogel shook his head. It was a mistake to leave them in charge of the lunazoe research for so long when they hadn’t produced any results.
The admiral flipped through the folder of concepts that had been put to review. One proposition was to capture a series of asteroids, slingshot them around the sun, and slam them into the moon. The objective was to knock the moon out of Earth orbit. On the paper, someone had jotted, “Probability: Unlikely.” A list of reasons had been written below. Apparently, not enough large asteroids existed to complete this task, and if there had been, the moon would still be in orbit around the sun, so the solution amounted to little more than sweeping dust under a rug.
The next page listed probability as viable. The plan was to construct a massive laser powered by
reflected sunlight and vaporize the moon in its entirety. Vogel read the list of cons. They included a 10+ year timeline and the risk of raising temperatures on Earth to uninhabitable levels.
This one Vogel liked. It was certainly novel. A USSN scientist had put together a concept of a giant net that would catch all moon plume detritus. It was described as having moderate possibility, but before he could read why, his PPC notified him of a priority call.
“Admiral. This is Captain Robert Hawley of the US3 Hamilton. We’ve got something new coming from the lunazoe.”
Admiral Vogel didn’t like the quaver in Hawley’s voice. He needed captains with nerves of steel. Hawley continued before Vogel could respond.
“I’m going to give you the feed from the beginning. It’s still broadcasting. And, sir, this signal is punching through our jammers. It’s hitting Earth.”
Vogel’s PPC lit up with a close-up shot of wet sand. Every few seconds, a wave crashed across and then slowly washed back. Sad violin music played in the background. No, sad might not have been the right word. It was neither happy nor sad. The admiral wasn’t sure he had the vocabulary to describe it. Indifferent violin music.
Admiral Vogel thought there might have been a mistake. He watched the waves for at least five seconds. Then, a male voice began speaking.
“People of Earth and beyond,” it spoke. “Children. My hurt and forgotten. I have come for you. I am God.”
The video panned up from the sand to face the horizon. A rising sun was waiting. The brightness flared and the screen faded to white. The whiteness transitioned to footage of a garden. Admiral Vogel had to admit that it was, without question, the most beautiful and vibrant garden he’d ever seen. The greens were as deep and lush as the White House lawn in springtime. Explosions of ruby, emerald, and sapphire bloomed like fireworks. Stalks of lavender stretched six feet high, flittering in a breeze that promised the sweetest scents known to man.
Moon Panic Page 5
